


king of my own land

by thunderstorms (fictionalparadises)



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Crying, Dream Smp, Dream is in Prison, Dreamon, F/M, Fantasy, Fluff (if you squint), Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Parenthood, papa puffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-17 00:14:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29341125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictionalparadises/pseuds/thunderstorms
Summary: Dream softly exhales a sigh and his shoulders curve inward slightly. I know, she wants to say. I know it hurts.Puffy takes a beat. Then she says, “I rebuilt the community house.”And that’s his breaking point.Captain Puffy visits Dream in prison and finds out that family is complicated, recovery is a crooked road and not everything evil is inherently wrong.
Relationships: Cara | CaptainPuffy & Clay | Dream (platonic)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 144





	king of my own land

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alienu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alienu/gifts).



> thanks to Ali for cheering me on :) 
> 
> even though i firmly believe dream deserves to be in prison i am still a dream apologist at heart sorry not sorry lol 
> 
> i know dream is not canonically puffy's son but him being her duckling is just too good not to write about,,,  
> anyway i do give him a lot of shit in this so don't worry, enjoy captain puffy being the best parent on the smp !

Captain Puffy decides, even before she enters the building, that she doesn’t like the prison.

It’s been on the SMP for months, and during those months she’s walked past it countless times, crossed the river behind it or just moved by, letting her hand brush against the ragged stone with a fleeting touch. Back then it already made shivers zip down her spine, and she usually averted her gaze after a minimal amount of seconds, stepping back and turning away as fast as her legs could carry her without breaking into a sprint.

That’s why it’s surprising that she’s standing in the middle of the foyer, the portal she just stepped through whispering quietly behind her. She can’t really believe it herself—it had more been a spur-of-the-moment decision, an impulse, because she’d previously sworn to never set foot in this forsaken building, but the past weeks have been spent building and rebuilding, sleepless nights dragging on to bring forth tiresome days.

She knows she won’t rest until she visits him.

Puffy lifts an arm to brush the hair out of her face, and her hand is shaking so badly that she puts it on the lectern, fingers tightening around the wood. If Sam notices, he doesn’t let on.

Sam doesn’t notice anything, it seems. But then again, it’s not really Sam standing in front of her—it’s the warden. The visible features underneath his mask schooled into cold disregard. “Sign this, please,” he says as he hands her a pen, and even his voice is different. He sounds monotone, more like he’s on auto-pilot than anything.

Puffy signs the book with shaky fingers. The ink bleeds across the paper and she bites on her tongue, sheepishly handing the book to Sam. He doesn’t seem to care—or even notice, for that matter. He just points her to one of the locker rooms and instructs her to take off all her items.

When she’s stored away all her belongings, the lack of armor and weapons at her side makes her feel oddly empty. She shivers as she makes her way back to Sam, rubbing her arms.

“Alright,” he says without looking at her, “follow me.”

The hallways are so longwinded and similar that she loses track of where she is by the fifth corner they round. It doesn’t matter anyway—this prison was meant to keep those who are supposed to be in inside, and those who are out outside.

It smells like wet concrete and rot. Puffy carefully glances around, eyes flicking back and forth between the rows of cells they pass and Sam’s broad back as he stalks in front of her.

“Are all cells inhabited?” She asks. Despite her quiet tone, her words still ring through the hall, bouncing off the black stone until the echo reaches her ears again. They twitch in response.

“Some,” Sam says without turning, and that’s as much of an answer as she gets.

She decides she doesn’t even want to know.

There’s more procedures she has to go through, gets potions pushed into her trembling hands that she has the drink in one swig and respawn points she needs to set and more books she needs to sign.

All of this, Puffy thinks, and for what? She’s so nervous that she’s nauseous, and the thought of turning on her heel and leaving the prison as fast as she came sounds unfairly tempting right now. What is she even going to say to him? What does she have to say that can somehow make this situation any better than it is?

But then she’s pushed through lava and Sam guides her to the stone platform and the wall of lava cascades down, and suddenly it’s too late to turn back.

Her heart jumps in her throat when she sees him.

“Good luck trying to get him to talk,” Sam says.

Puffy turns back, eyes widening. “What are you—”

The platform stutters into motion before she can finish her thoughts and she nearly loses her balance, swinging out her arms to remain standing. When she finally dares to look up again, she’s already crossed the vast sea of lava churning beneath her feet.

Dream is sitting on the floor, back resting against a stack of crying obsidian. He looks at her, eyes wide, and Puffy can’t tell if it’s shock or surprise on his face.

She steps forward. The platform moves back and lava sizzles to life as Sam presses whatever button to close them in.

He stares at her, and she stares back, heart pounding in her ears. Her breathing is too loud inside her head and her hands are shaking so much that she has to clench them into fists at her side. Still, she forces herself to sit down on the rough obsidian without trembling, folding her legs underneath her body.

“Hello,” she says, the waver in her voice barely audible. The heat of the lava blazes against her back, makes her slightly too wide shirt flutter around her arms, and the glow casts Dream’s face in orange hues.

He looks bad. Tired, just like her, bluish bags under his eyes and cheeks sickly pale. His hair hangs flattened against his face. Dirt and dried blood stain his overall.

After a moment of silence, Puffy says, “I heard you weren’t talking.”

Dream stares for a few seconds, then scrambles to his feet and rummages through his single chest before he pulls out a book. When he pushes the leather into her hands, she frowns.

_I’m on strike._

“What for?” She asks, handing back the book.

He shrugs and sits down on his original spot, flipping to a new page. _Security measures._

She huffs out a laugh, brows drawing together in disbelief. “That’s—that’s great. Just perfect.” She sighs, glancing around the cell. It’s so empty, desolate in a way, and she’s not sure if it’s pity but her heartstrings pull taut inside her chest. “I like your clock,” she says, inclining her head and narrowing her eyes at the label that’s slapped on top: _DO NOT BURN._

Dream nods in agreement, and she meets his gaze. The air is thick with tension, forcing its way down Puffy’s lungs and making it hard to grasp the words she wants to say. What do you tell someone who’s lost everything? Who didn’t just lose everyone around him, but himself, too?

The book is pushed under her nose. _Why are you here?_

Puffy’s eyes snap up from the page. “Am I not allowed to visit you?”

He hastily scribbles something onto a new page before holding up the book again. _Of course you are. But why now?_

That’s a good question. If Puffy had an answer, she would tell him, or perhaps she _does_ know but just isn’t ready to face that truth herself. She worries her lower lips and shrugs. “I heard it got a little lonely up here. Sam told me the last visitor you had was Sapnap, a month ago.” Her eyes glide through the interior of the cell before they land on Dream. He doesn’t give any sign of confirmation or denial—just stares at her with that undecipherable glaze in his eyes. Softly, she speaks up, “How have you been, Dream?”

He tears away his gaze. _Good. It does get a little quiet though, sometimes._

“Does anyone from the prison ever visit? Does Sam?” She asks, because no matter how firmly she believes he deserves to be here, she can’t stop that motherly part of her to take over, to care and to worry and to fret about him.

He shrugs, which she takes as yes, no, sometimes, only if it’s necessary. Her gaze flicks back to the clock. _DO NOT BURN._ She wonders how many of them he's gone through already.

“You write a lot?” She asks, jerking her chin to the chest in the corner. She hasn’t missed the ink stains on Dream’s fingers and the discarded pen caps scattered across the floor.

He nods, though doesn’t offer anything more than that.

Puffy rubs her hands together, willing them to warm up. Despite the lava at her back, she’s cold.

 _Why are you really here?_ The book is slid into her view and she stares at the pages unblinkingly before slowly looking up.

She swallows hard. “I had to come visit you.”

_From who?_

“Myself.”

Dream raises a brow in question.

“I—I…” Puffy trails off, dragging a frantic hand through her hair. Then her shoulders droop and she sighs. “How did we even get here, Dream? _Why?”_

 _You know I can’t tell you,_ he writes after a moment, then adds, _but you already know the answer._ There are shadows in his eyes that weren’t there before and, in a fleeting moment, Puffy can see how he used to be when he was younger: running around the plains with his bow and quiver of arrows, hiding in the tall grass. Faintly, she can still hear him shrieking with laughter as she counted to ten and waited for him to sneak up on her before twisting and snatching him up mid-air to swing him around.

She blinks, and the memory is gone. All she hears is lava as it sizzles against the obsidian.

“I just don’t understand,” she says, despair curling in the pit of her stomach. She wants to cling onto that memory and never let go of it, wants to never let that innocent boy slip through her arms again, wants to shield him from this vicious world no matter the cost. “How could you?”

He doesn’t meet her eyes.

“How could you, Dream?” She asks, voice trembling. “To your friends? To your _family?”_ They both know she doesn’t mean her—she means George and Sapnap. Family—or whatever is left of it.

He shakes his head, frantic, hair swaying with the movement.

“Talk to me,” she pleads. “I didn’t come here to read your answers from a page. I came to hear your words.” _I came to hear if you’re still worth saving. I came to hear if there’s even enough of you left to salvage._

Dream flips back to one of the previous pages. _I’m on strike._

Puffy shakes her head. “I don’t care,” she says. “I’ll take it up with Sam later.”

 _I’M ON STRIKE._ He fiercely underlines the words and slides the book her way. She sends it skidding back with a kick of her boot, not even bothering to look at the words. When she glances at him, her brows draw together in anguish. “What you did was _wrong,_ Dream. You killed and tortured and manipulated, you hurt those around you, you shut yourself off from them and lashed out when they tried to help—and I’m not even talking about _me_ —you let poison seep into your mind and didn’t stop it from corrupting every good thing you had in your life and I _don’t understand,”_ she says, out of breath once she’s done, her voice balancing on the edge of desperation.

Dream stares at her, jaw set, the jade of his eyes alight with wrath. But Puffy does not look away—she has endured more than this, endured more poisonous and dread-filling stares from him. She does not look away because she _knows_ him, knows him in ways that others don’t, knows him because she loves him, even when he’s crooked and hateful and wicked. His hands tighten around the book in his hands.

She does not look away because he’s her family, whether he wants to be or not.

In the end, he breaks the stare himself. He gets to his feet, turning away from her, resting his forehead against the wall as he lets out a ragged breath.

“I don’t understand, but I want to,” she begs, “please. Please just _talk to me!”_

Dream spins on his heel and hurls the book into the lava behind her with one sharp launch. She whips around, eyes wide, face heating immediately as the paper catches on fire inches away from her. She watches it burn to a pile of ash.

When she turns back, Dream’s face is twisted with fury as he rips his clock from the wall.

“Hey!” She cries out, stumbling to her feet as fast as her legs allow her, and then she’s suddenly in front of him, her hand wrapping around his wrist before she can think it through. “Let’s… let’s not do that, okay?”

He freezes at her touch, eyes flitting through the room to look everywhere but at her.

“C’mon,” she says, softer this time.

Dream slowly lowers his arm a little, letting Puffy gently take the clock from his stiff fingers. She places it back in the item frame before turning to Dream.

“It’s okay,” she whispers, carefully lifting her hand. Dream doesn’t flinch when she cups his cheek—instead he closes his eyes and leans into it, almost like on instinct. “It’s okay.”

They both know it’s not.

Puffy lets out a breathy chuckle, though it lacks genuine humor. “I didn’t come here to fight with you, if I’m honest.”

Dream opens his eyes again. “I know,” he croaks out. His voice is hoarse, almost like he’s been screaming.

Two words, but the sound knocks the breath out of Puffy’s lungs. She brushes her thumb across his sharp cheekbone, avoiding the healing cut on his cheek. He’s so tall—she’s nearly forgotten how tall he is, with how little she’s seen him these past months.

Even before his slow descent into darkness, he was always off with George and Sapnap, scattered with the winds. She’s forgotten how much she has to crane her neck in order to be able to look up to him. _I’m sorry,_ she finds herself wanting to say, without really knowing what she’s even sorry for. _I’m sorry for not being able to protect you._

But Dream has always been like this—from the moment he could walk he’s been fending for himself, rather a sword in his hand than a friend, rather learning how to fight than go to the king’s parties.

Puffy just didn’t know it would bring them here.

She could say she is sorry, but it has brought them here either way, and there is no way to undo what has been done. She takes in his face, somehow so young yet so old for someone his age, counts the freckles dusting his nose like she used to do when she lulled him to sleep, knows that it might be the last time in a long, long while.

“How much longer do you think I’ll be in here?” He asks, voice so raspy that it reminds her of stone grinding on stone.

Her expression falls a little. “I—I don’t think they’re going to let you out any time soon, Dream.”

“But I’ll get out one day,” he says.

 _He doesn’t get it._ “No. This is where you have to be for now. The prison is the only way.” Puffy’s voice is much less convincing than she wants it to be, even when she knows what she’s saying is right.

He glances at the lectern next to them. “I tried burning it,” he remarks. “Then he did this.”

Now the crying obsidian makes sense. Puffy tries to drown out its wails, even if it's so soft that it’s barely audible, but now that she’s paying attention to it, she can’t stop hearing the cries. The hair on her arms rises. Even worse is the realization that he tried to escape. “You tried to escape?”

“I tried, and I failed.” He looks at her, and she can’t tell what the look in his eyes means. “But I will succeed one day.”

Puffy nearly lets out a laugh, though she’s closer to crying than laughing. A sad smile tugs on the corners of her mouth. “No, you won’t.”

“Eventually,” is all he says.

“You won’t get out,” Puffy repeats softly, wishing that she could get this through his thick skull for once. And even if it pains her to say the words, she adds, “I won’t let you.”

She swears a flash of hurt crosses his eyes, but when he blinks it's gone. A careful smile finds its way onto his face. “Eventually.”

“Dream…”

Her hand slips from his face. Though he flinches, he doesn’t object.

Puffy steps back, shaking her head slightly. “You don’t get it, do you?” She breathes out deeply, pacing up and down the length of the room. “You just don’t get it.”

“What?” He asks, brows knitting together, voice soft despite his implications. He sounds… vulnerable, almost.

“You—you have to learn from your mistakes, Dream. That’s what everyone else is doing—learning from their mistakes. You should be taking your time in the prison to realize that what you did was wrong.” She stops pacing and turns to him instead. “They won’t let you out until they know your sentence has served its purpose.”

Puffy stares at him. Duckling, dreamon, it all blends together into the person that’s standing in front of her right now.

A monster.

And he doesn’t even know it.

She’s tired. So tired of the loss around her, of her efforts to keep everyone together, of the sorrow that has settled into the core of her heart.

Puffy shuffles towards the back of Dream’s cell and sits down against the wall, the back of her arms scuffing the stone as she slides down the ragged obsidian.

Dream watches her from a distance, following her movements with a scrutinizing frown on his face. In this light, the orange glow softens his features and almost turns him into something human.

It’s quiet for a long moment. The words jumble together in Puffy’s mind, so many things she wants to say, so many things she shouldn’t.

In the end, she breaks the silence with, “I saw George recently.”

Surprise lights up in Dream’s green eyes and he tilts his head, a silent inquiry to go on.

Puffy rests her head back against the wall and closes her eyes. “It was the first time in, what, six months that he was back on the SMP? Tommy was so busy staring in shock as he walked past that he stumbled off the Prime Path and fell into the river.” She chuckles quietly at the memory. She’d dived in after him to make sure he didn’t accidentally die— _again._ “George looked well. A little lost, but… fresh. Hopeful.” He’d been whistling tunes, axe idly swung to rest over his shoulder, and he even stopped to talk to Puffy for a few minutes. _Oh, and what’s the fastest way to the mining tunnels?_

 _Through the sewers,_ she’d told him, a little dazed.

“Lots of people are building. Fundy made a new house, as did Tubbo, Bad is renovating, Ghostbur is… well, Ghostbur. He helps around, or tries to,” she says. Her words are not meant to be provoking or upsetting. She wants to show him that everyone is healing, little by little, trying to rebuild what once resembled their life. “And I ran into Sapnap a few days back.”

There’s shuffling next to her, and then a soft gush of wind. Puffy opens her eyes to see that Dream has sat down beside her, a few inches away. With their legs stretched out like this, their height difference is even more ridiculous.

“I talked to him for a while. He told me he’s spending lots of time with George. They went hunting again for the first time in forever.” She knows, without a doubt, that these words strike Dream in the place where his heart is—or used to be. When they were younger, the three of them used to go hunting together. Dream would bid her goodbye at the crack of dawn, when Puffy was still fast asleep, and she’d see him again long after dark, smile lines evident on his face and eyes twinkling as he came home with his arms full of fresh food.

Dream softly exhales a sigh and his shoulders curve inward slightly. _I know,_ she wants to say. _I know it hurts._

Puffy takes a beat. Then she says, “I rebuilt the community house.”

And that’s his breaking point.

A quiet sob racks through Dream’s body, shoulders shaking. Puffy keeps staring ahead, but she gently places her hand on top of his.

“I rebuilt it all by myself,” she continues. “It looks just like it did before.”

She can feel his body tremble with the intensity of his sobs. Something in her chest pulls taut.

“I’m sorry,” he rasps in between his gasps for air.

Does he mean it? Puffy doesn’t know. It might as well be another one of his tricks. 

But she opens her arms and lets him collapse into the familiarity of her embrace. He’s much taller than her and his neck is bent at a crooked angle like this and he’s shaking as he sobs, tears soaking in the cotton of her shirt and leaving dark stains on her shoulder. It doesn't matter, she thinks to herself, not right now.

He is a God. But in this moment he is just a boy, brilliant, broken, burdened by eternity, doomed by the shadows inside of him.

He is just a boy—hurting, scared, in need of someone to help him.

Puffy has been there to pick him up since he scraped his knees on the pavement playing tag with other kids in the neighborhood. She’s been cleaning the blood of his grazes since he was old enough to climb trees in the grassy plains. She’s been wiping the tears from his cheeks since before he was old enough to understand the darkness inside his mind.

And right now he’s falling apart again, ripping at the seams to unfurl into slivers of grief and regret and anger and vengeance.

She’s been here since the very start to stitch him back together.

What’s once more?

**Author's Note:**

> leave a comment <3
> 
> find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/sundaycore)


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